


when you close your eyes (there I'll be)

by ToAStranger



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 15:21:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 535
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4966066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToAStranger/pseuds/ToAStranger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when you dream tonight (I'm all you'll see)</p>
            </blockquote>





	when you close your eyes (there I'll be)

“Stiles,” it coos, lips cold but breath hot at the shell of Stiles’ ear. 

This is a nightmare he has had before.  He will have it again.  The creature pressed to his back laughs.  Its hands are cold; it wears his face. 

He burns.  A sure palm slides down over the lines of his abdomen, and the muscles there contract, quiver.  The shudder that wracks his body is heavy, equal parts disgust and desire.  The hand slides lower, and Stiles jerks, his own fingers curling around a boney wrist and clutching. 

“Hush,” it tells him, but stills that large hand just beneath Stiles’ navel, smiling as Stiles trembles.  “Hush, sweetheart, I have you.”

Stiles whimpers.  His eyes squeeze shut tight.  The room is dark, cold.  It always is.  He is always in a state of undress.  This time his chest is bare, his feet are bare, and his jeans are slung low on his hips.  He feels it when the carpet beneath his soles shifts to dirt between his toes.  The sound he lets out is something akin to a sob, and lips press to his rapid pulse, just beneath his left ear.

“St _iles_ ,” it whispers. 

It licks, tongue flat, up the line of his throat.  Another hand, this one pressing flat over Stiles’ chest, over the steady _thud-thud-thud_ of his heart.  Stiles grabs it, clings to a wrist that feels like his but isn’t, and gasps as it climbs over his skin.  Fingers curl, slow as seduction, firm at Stiles’ neck.  Stiles’ nails dig into cool flesh.

There is more laughter.  Soft kisses peppered along the line of his shoulder.  The hand at his belly sinks lower despite the urgent pull Stiles gives, and a palm presses down against his crotch.  He’s hard.  Stiles moans.

“My _sweet_ boy,” it hums, already working Stiles’ pants open, already shoving the material away in order to take Stiles in hand and _stroke_.  “My sweet, _sweet_ boy.”

Stiles curses.  His eyes fly open.  The Nemeton stands before him, mocking him. 

“Please,” Stiles breathes.

“Hush,” it repeats.  “I have you.”

Stiles hates that he doesn’t want to wake up. 

The laugh is more of a breath, like a brand over Stiles’ skin that is followed by lips.  “Whoever told you this was a dream?”

When he comes, it is with fear in his veins and pleasure on his tongue.  It doesn’t take long, it never does, and when it’s over, Stiles sags back against this creature, this man, this self in relief.  It holds him, strokes him until he’s whining, too sensitive, and keeps a steady hand around his neck. 

“I have you,” it tells him.  “You’re mine.  Just as I am yours.  You’re _mine_.”

Stiles blinks, sluggish, quaking.  Dawn is coming; the sky is already pink.  His fingers loosen at its wrists, and it rewards him with a lingering kiss to his temple. 

“You’re mine.”

Stiles tips his head back, lips parted, and a mouth that is his but is not his closes the distance.  There is no question, no answer, just heat.  Souls meeting somewhere in the middle; light and dark twining together.

When they part, Stiles licks his lips.  “I’m yours,” he whispers. 

He wakes.


End file.
